


Hearsay

by LadyOblivion



Series: Livi's Fire Emblem Drabble Series [2]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-07 14:47:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16410494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyOblivion/pseuds/LadyOblivion
Summary: She never noticed them, at first, truth be told. The mercenary group that had settled in Darna had been there for longer than she could remember. She was used to them, to their presence, to the town's talk about them and a certain Black Knight.Rarely did she ever catch this infamous mercenary's name, the one who supposedly had a body count that could fill the entirety of the Yied Desert and who bathed in the blood of his victims. One who would cut you down without warning or hesitation. One who also happened to frequent the tavern she'd made a stage of as of late.





	Hearsay

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting on my drafts for a whole week. Yay for procrastination.

As of late, Lene found herself hating rumors.

Not that she was ever the biggest fan of them, heavens forbid, but it was at least entertaining to see housewives tear themselves apart in the name of rumor mongering — in a very cynical way, at least. And Lene really didn't do cynicism, so even that small advantage was a point made moot.

Chasing rumors all her life, trying to find a mother she'd so far been incredibly unlucky in locating, she slowly came to take them with the tiniest grain of salt. It wasn't easy to chase after a shadow she had no way of identifying.

Being the subject of rumors all her life was also a particularly bothersome issue. Her profession, though done out of passion and requiring someone with scruples and ethic, was often collated with more unsavory activities — not that she had something against prostitutes, one's gotta do what they gotta do to survive in an incredibly harsh world — but the comparison was incredibly uncomfortable for her. She didn't appreciate it in the slightest, not when she made an incredible effort of politely turning down possible suitors, not when she had renounced many a chance as a private dancer for the sake of her own liberty and integrity, not when she went through the problems of learning to wield a sword with even the slightest amount of proficiency in case she needed more than sweet words to worm her way out of a patron's sleazy hands.

And yet? She'd grown used to all of that. The effect said rumors had on her had decreased rapidly. Exposure did make one incredibly numb. So, no, being the target of rumors didn't quite bother her as much anymore. They were as much a part of her daily life as numb legs and calloused and aching feet were. You learned to endure a lot of strife when living out on the streets, alone, as a self-taught dancer with nothing more than an old sword and some clothes and accessories to her name.

What _did_ bother her, however, was rumors she'd been hearing about a certain person.

She never noticed them, at first, truth be told. The mercenary group that had settled in Darna had been there for longer than she could remember. She was used to them, to their presence, to the town's talk about them and a certain _Black Knight._

Rarely did she ever catch this infamous mercenary's name, the one who supposedly had a body count that could fill the entirety of the Yied Desert and who bathed in the blood of his victims. One who would cut you down without warning or hesitation. One who also happened to frequent the tavern she'd made a stage of as of late.

Lene had never known who he was, at first — all she knew was that there happened to be a patron that often sat at the back of the room, alone, clad in black. Golden locks and copper eyes that were incredibly alluring, even in the darkness of a lantern-lit tavern. A firm yet polite way of speech every time he ordered a drink, always appending his statements with a please and a thank you. A sword at his waist he would never be seen without and would occasionally have his hand unconsciously travel to.

Oh, Lene had been observing him, alright. It was just hard to not watch. Most people seemed to think so. And for whatever reason, most people seemed to fear him.

He seemed incredibly... awkward. Alone. Sad. There was an odd sense of melancholy around him, as if he wasn't more than a broken man, trying to find his way in life and being incapable of seizing it. Was Lene projecting? Maybe she was. But she could feel that there was more behind him — a story to tell to whoever would be brave enough to approach him.

And that was exactly what she did, one day where the heat of the desert felt lighter, more amicable. One day where she knew she'd probably regret accepting the mead she'd been offered by a colleague. One day where she felt proud and brave and confidently strode up to him and started a conversation.

Ares, she'd learned was his name. She'd learned that he was a mercenary, that his sword was called Mystletainn. She'd learned that he hung out at the bar on nights where he didn't have a job because he didn't like being completely alone, even if he rarely had company. That he was surprisingly hard-pressed to start a conversation but, if spurred on, he'd do his best to answer with all honesty, even if it sometimes his words were cruel. That he was surprisingly snarky and a good conversationalist when the subject caught his interest. That he never sent her away or asked her to leave, but instead asked her name and when would she perform again.

Lene had left that night feeling butterflies in her stomach that she could not attribute fully to the alcohol they'd shared.

It was the start of an odd friendship.

They wouldn't set dates or anything of the sort, but any time Lene found herself off early she'd wander into the bar to see if Ares was there. She'd make a beeline to his side, and talk and talk until their throats were sore and he offered to ride her to her small home. Or, if she was to perform at their meetup tavern (Lene felt queasy thinking of it as _theirs_ ), he'd watch her intently during her performances, his eyes never leering to places her other patrons would often glue their eyesight to, but instead following her movements. Her hands, her legs, her eyes. Utterly captivated and she couldn't help the swell of pride in her chest or the warmth in her body that she could easily chalk up to exertion. Ares would always remain on his seat but still offer a clap to her dances.

He was weird. Different. And Lene absolutely adored it.

It took her a lot of time to realize he was the so feared Black Knight people talked about.

And, honestly, how could anyone expect her to figure out?

The Ares she knew was kind, attentive, awkward yet well meaning. A weird mix of polite and harsh at once. The type of man to wordlessly roll his sleeves up and help a stranger on the streets without as much as a request needed. He was soft and ruthless, yes. More than once had Lene seen him threateningly unsheathe Mystletainn as a warning to any drunkard that attempted to get too close to her. And if that was not enough to stop them — you'd need to be particularly brave, foolish, or drunk to attempt to challenge Ares when he was angry — he'd never pounce for a kill. It was always a blow that would knock out the tavern-goer out cold.

And, after she first saw him in battle, she knew Ares did not needlessly kill.

He moved with quick yet heavy footsteps, elegantly pouncing on enemies, not a single step being misused, not a movement being out of place. Like a lion takes to hunt its prey, so did Ares to hunt his. Every time, he repeated a set of words Lene would never forget. Not since he stood up to Bramsel in an attempt to protect her from a man no one else she knew would ever have the courage to stand up to.

_"You all see my sword, correct? I trust I need not introduce the demon blade. Beware, for Mystletainn craves the blood of men."_

Such an interesting and out of place thing to say, but it never failed to get Ares' message across. If you value your life, you'll run. So much for "would cut you down without warning or hesitation." Hesitation? That much was true — once his sights were set, Ares would not waver, but he would always give a fair warning to his opponents. A chance to flee, to run. To escape with their lives because if Ares was certainly one thing, he was confident in the battlefield. Knew any precious life would meet their end at the edge of his blade.

_"If I can avoid it, I will. Not everyone in this world has a choice of whether they'll live or they'll die — the gods are never so kind."_

The words struck her deeply when she'd asked him back then. _"So, you'll grant them that kindness yourself? That's really like you."_ She'd nuzzled besides him that day, cold and tired from the steady march once they'd joined the liberation army.

She got no immediate reply, as if her statement had left Ares in deep thought, before he finally added. _"I can hardly be called kind anymore."_

Lene disputed that, of course she did, but she also knew Ares to be a stubborn man. That conversation took them nowhere. Her verbal battles with him were always enjoyable, always finding each other on even ground, but this happened to be one neither of them seemed to want to back off from.

Even if Ares didn't know it, or didn't want to acknowledge it, he was kind. Only a kind soul would've decided to go to hell and back, to put aside his lifelong hatred and search for revenge, to save a mere dancer from a dark dungeon in the depths of Darna.

And that's why Lene had started to despise rumors. Not because of her, but because of him. People around Ares had painted him as such a beast, such a demon, incapable of nothing more than a lust for death and battle that he hardly believed he had any light left in himself. Lene knew better, but sometimes it felt like she was the only one that did. The only one that got to see the kind Ares that would offer his assistance with the army's duties simply because he could, that taught her how to effectively wield her mother's sword for the first time ever. The kind Ares who would cling to her at night, as if scared he'd ever lose her.

A monster? Heartless? Hearsay, all of it.

Privilege is what Lene would call it, to be able to see Ares, and not the Black Knight. The man torn by responsibility and pain, who despite the many years he'd grown without them, still loved his parents enough to dedicate his whole life to avenging them, who would overzealously protect Seliph and Leif once he'd learned the truth, as if fiercely holding on to the last traces of the Lionheart and his friendship with Lords Sigurd and Quan, by protecting their sons. No, by backing up their sons.

It was beautiful, really, to see the initially hesitant Ares warm up to someone that wasn't her. Life had broken him so much that he hardly believed it when it finally threw him a bone. He was cautious, overly so, around the Liberation army. So was everyone, truth be told, but Ares took an especially long time to warm up.

When he warmed up, however, he'd burn as bright as a bonfire, dedicated to help and protect what little life didn't take away from him now that his hands were big and strong enough to take what he wanted for himself and not let go, even if it killed him. And protect he did. And cherish all the same. Quick friends he'd become with Leif. A confidant for Seliph's direst of times. A calming presence for his cousins.

Lene hated that it was so hard for people to divorce Ares from the idea of the ruthless Black Knight because Ares was so much more than just that.

If only they could see it. If only Ares could see what she saw everyday.

**Author's Note:**

> I took very slight inspiration from Drinking The Mystletainn by Aitum. If you're even slightly interested in Ares/Lene content and haven't read that, correct that mistake.


End file.
